


doubt truth to be a liar

by orphan_account



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself king of infinite space. / A series of drabbles, prompted by Hamlet quotes. Genfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	doubt truth to be a liar

.i.

{ _this is madness, and yet there is method in it_ }

"I'm not doing this for you," she hisses, drawing water from her skin in one fluid motion. "You don't deserve mercy or pity or compassion, because Sedna knows you've never shown any. You've hurt people I love. That's not something I'll ever forgive."

Azula is slumped against her chains, glaring blankly at the adjacent wall; Katara moves closer, until they almost touch. "But I'll heal your mind, and you'll owe a common, filthy peasant a debt you can't repay."

Then, smiling in bitter triumph, she forms a twisted halo above the princess's head.

.ii.

{ _frailty, thy name is woman_ }

There's a betrothal necklace in the palm of her hand, an aquamarine pendant dangling from a blue ribbon. Pakku spent weeks crafting it- he'd bragged loudly at the engagement ceremony, much to the amusement of their parents. "See, I'll be a good husband to you, Kanna. I'm not afraid to work hard." Her father had smiled in approval at his words.

She never wanted this. But what choice does she have? She practices no trade, and lacks the courage to forsake her ancestors and go south, where the war is. Pakku treats her like a china doll, but there are women whose menfolk are far less protective. A waterbending scion from a powerful family is better than she could have done.

Slowly, she ties the noose around her neck, and pretends that the moisture pooling beneath her eyelids comes from the snowflakes.

.iii.

{ _one may smile, and smile, and be a villain_ }

Zhao wears his affability like a well-forged mask. He is quick to temper, but as long as he's comfortably dominating the exchange, he can plot your slow, torturous fall from grace while politely enquiring about your grandmother's health.

This astounds Ozai. He, himself, is not lovable or charismatic or charming- is not _Iroh._ He wants to see naked fear in his opponents' gazes when they realize they have nowhere left to run.

"It's all a game, my friend," Zhao patiently explains. "Convince your enemies that they're safe, pull the wool over their eyes, and your victory will be so much sweeter when they finally crumble to the ground."

.iv.

{ _a little more than kin, a little less than kind_ }

Toph's parents don't have a daughter, to be honest. Once they had a pretty, fragile girl who was too weak to so much as feed herself. She was her mother's doll, to be dressed up and cosseted and pampered on a whim, but never loved, never cherished. Always put back on the shelf before anyone came poking around.

( _If they loved her, why were they too ashamed to admit her existence to the rest of the world? Why was she tucked away in her bedchamber with a nursemaid whenever they hosted banquets, left to listen to mingled chatter and the clank of sake glasses from afar?_ )

But that same pretty, fragile girl became a prizefighter even though she was meant to break, and she ran away from home to teach the avatar earthbending and save the world. She understands, of course, that she broke her parents' stony hearts in the process.

So she isn't hurt when they don't reply to her letters. She isn't hurt when she runs into her father at a Gaoling marketplace and he acts like they've never set eyes on each other. She isn't hurt when neither of them can even be bothered to meet Lin.

Really. She isn't.

.v.

{ _what is the quintessence of dust?_ }

It is a beautiful wedding.

Mai has no role- the child of a practically sterile first wife is nothing more than a disgraced bastard. She sits beside her mother, dressed in expensive red silk, ducking her head to avoid the stares of judgmental outsiders. _Nine miscarriages, only a female to pacify her poor husband, left without a son and heir._

Lord Ayakura leans over the altar to plant a stiff kiss on his new lady's mouth, a tanned, fashionable young woman from the southern islands. The small bump straining her gown cannot be fully hidden, no matter how clever the seamstress's work.

There are six knives up Mai's sleeves- Mother taught her shurikenjutsu, once upon a time, because the world is a dangerous place and you can never be sure when you'll be ambushed. She wants to remove them and start throwing in all directions- at her smug father and his glorified mistress, at the nobles whispering behind their hands, at the haggard priest who sanctioned this entire thing- so that the temple can be painted with slick blue blood.

She digs her nails into her palms.

.vi.

{ _there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so_ }

War means sacrifice and war means suffering. Jet knows this from the time he's eight years old and his village burns to ash, from the time he has to become the leader of a ragtag group of guerrilla orphans, from the time he first watches a man bleed out at his feet.

Compassion is a long-abandoned relic of an era past. The life of innocents is worth nothing, the life of Fire Nation scum even less. Until every person who has wronged him- truly or inadvertently- is disposed of, he has no room for pity in his heart.

_There is no war in Ba Sing Se_ , a soothing, disembodied voice tells him, and he struggles- he _is_ the war- but then his world goes blank.

.vii.

{ _give every man thy ear, but few thy voice_ }

Iroh is a coward.

In his youth, he never would have thought so. But he is no longer a decorated general, merely yesterday's hero, a man whose throne has been usurped and who has precious little to concern himself with anymore, except his shunted-aside nephew.

Prince Zuko was not meant for the court, and Ozai was not meant to be a father, and from all this he knows what will happen once the boy gets on his knees to beg for mercy. Azula raises her fist in cruel anticipation, Zhao smirks like a knife. Iroh turns his head to the side as agonized screaming fills his ears.

He can't stop Zuko from mouthing off to a man with more medals than courage, or heal the ravaged flesh on his face, or rescind his banishment. But he can accompany him on what is bound to be a long, terrible voyage. He only hopes that will suffice.


End file.
